


A Good Word For A Good Morning

by DontTouchMySpaceBuns



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff, M/M, Neil waxing poetic about Andrew bc they're in LOVE, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Tracing Scars, a wee bit o' angst, allusions to past trauma, bc who wouldn't lmao, bullying Kevin Day behind his back, waking up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontTouchMySpaceBuns/pseuds/DontTouchMySpaceBuns
Summary: Neil didn't think he could have this. He didn't think he'd ever be able to wake up next to someone and feel them like an extension of himself, so sure and so steady.But here he is, next to Andrew. Perhaps a future with him isn't so far out of reach.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 20
Kudos: 232





	A Good Word For A Good Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I've been really into AFTG lately and I wanted to write something for it! Here's an itty bitty Andreil one-shot. Chicken soup for the soul and all that.
> 
> TW: Mentions of nightmares and mentions of their respective past traumas. Mentions of scars. Nothing terribly specific as far as the trauma goes, but please don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything else I should mention. Take care of yourselves!!

Waking up is a horrible game, and Neil is a terrible player. Sometimes, he wakes with blood on his hands and screams in his ears, the feeling of hot metal on his skin. Sometimes he’s still frozen for moments after he opens his eyes, trapped in his own traitorous mind.

The worst days are when he wakes up flailing. Those are the days he inevitably disturbs Andrew, who wakes up flailing in turn. Their limbs lash out, and sometimes they clash, and sometimes they hurt. That’s when the guilt swoops in to churn beside the sick memories burning up in Neil. He hates being the reason Andrew wakes up scared. Those are the days neither of them speak until noon. Those are the days they link their pinkies in the kitchen over breakfast, poking at their respective plates until they can look each other in the eye again. Neil likes to pretend those days are an anomaly, but they happen more often than he likes to let on.

But sometimes, the game is good. Sometimes, Neil wakes quietly, and opens his eyes to find Andrew’s face in the dim light of morning. He’s discovered that this is when his heart is fullest. He knows waking up first is a risky endeavor, but as long as he stays bone still, there’s no reason he can’t admire from a bare foot’s distance the spun gold spilling out beneath Andrew’s head on the pillow. No reason he can’t count the sparse freckles on Andrew’s temples— _seven, total—_ and no reason he can’t imagine tracing the gentle slope of Andrew’s nose with a finger. _This_ is Andrew at his gentlest. And Neil doesn’t need Andrew to be gentle, most of the time—in fact, he’s grown to depend on his savage firmness, his jagged conviction—but he will never take for granted the opportunity to observe Andrew like this. So placid, so unmoved. So intensely beautiful.

His eyes engage in a brief intermission to read the alarm clock over Andrew’s shoulder. Six-twelve. The alarm will go off in three minutes. Neil is overcome with the urge to reach over and turn it off, if only to grant Andrew these last moments of much needed rest, but moving at all will wake him up and defeat the purpose. It’s such an ugly realization that he physically frowns at either thought. He wants to stay here. Wants to forget the world and lose himself in the soft rays of sun across Andrew’s neck, in the lay of pale lashes across paler cheeks. If this is Neil’s recompense for living, he’ll take it with a smile and a kiss.

Andrew stirs a minute before the alarm goes off. It took Neil a few weeks only to memorize the process by which he does this, the progression of fluttering lashes to a sudden burst of hazel, preceded by the realization that Andrew is not alone in his bed. Neil remains still as it happens. A blatant declaration of intent, or lack thereof. He waits until Andrew’s eyes settle on his and the distress dies from them—a blatant declaration of _trust—_ before smiling.

“Staring,” Andrew admonishes, digging a finger into his cheek.

Neil’s grin widens. “Are you complaining?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

Andrew’s eyes wash over him in a deliberate perusal, just as they do most mornings after nightmares. Neil doesn’t ask. He knows Andrew’s demons, and he knows rehashing them over and over again will only tear at wounds that don’t need tearing. Instead, he lets Andrew trace the scars on his face, feeling each ridge with a certain reverence he’d been surprised to learn Andrew was capable of, at first. Not soft, not aggressive. It feels like faith. It feels like knowing.

Andrew opens his mouth to say something, but the alarm cuts him off like it was waiting for him to speak. Mumbling something fervent about _that dumb piece of shit, gonna fucking unplug you and chuck you off the balcony,_ he reaches over and slams a hand down on the snooze button. Neil feels like smiling again, so he does. He likes that Andrew feels annoyed. He likes that Andrew feels.

“Why are you still here?” Andrew asks, turning back to face him. _Why aren’t you on your run?_

Neil stretches an arm across his chest. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Mm.”

Andrew reaches out to trace one of the scars on Neil’s collarbone, just barely revealed by the V of his neckline. Warmth prickles across Neil’s skin. He feels the grappling elation at the thought that, despite Andrew’s apparent nightmares, this might be a good day for him. And a good day for Andrew is a good day for Neil.

“Nicky asked when we’d be back,” Andrew mentions absently, still tracing. “I told him Sunday night.”

Neil hums. “That’s cutting it close. Kevin will be angry.”

“I’m shaking in my boots.”

“He’s going to catch on eventually, you know,” Neil tells him. “That he’s not as scary as he thinks he is.”

“Kevin Day could scare a duck, maybe. On a good day.”

“Tell him that.”

“You just said he’ll figure it out on his own. I’m inclined to let him.”

Neil chuckles, and Andrew moves to sit up. Neil worries for a moment that he’ll discard the covers and get out of bed, but he stays where he is and crooks a finger at Neil to come closer. Neil gladly obliges.

They meet in a slow kiss above the duvet. The slide of Andrew’s lips is warm and heartening, like summer rain after a drought. Neil always forgets in sleep how much he misses this contact. He revels in these morning reunions and the reassurance of skin against skin. His blood runs comfortably warm in his veins.

Andrew takes Neil’s hand and brings it up to the back of his neck. Neil lets his fingers rest there for a moment, not heavily, before moving them up to tangle in Andrew’s hair. He sighs contentedly into another kiss.

After a moment, Andrew pulls far enough away to ask, “What’s for breakfast?”

“We can make waffles, before my run.” _We,_ even though Neil will most definitely be the one servicing the stove while Andrew sits on the counter and eats all the strawberries.

Andrew hums and captures his lips again. His hands tug at the fabric of Neil’s shirt, covering his stomach, and—oh, they’re mapping out the lithe muscles there. Neil, in addition to being pleasantly surprised, is suddenly very present. He knows Andrew likes to touch his scars after a bad night, to remind himself that Neil is safe in his specificity, but this is… different. Andrew doesn’t usually touch him like this so soon after nightmares. In fact, it’s not uncommon for him to withdraw into himself for an hour or two after waking, a whole day if he’s particularly affected. But this morning is obviously different, as evidenced by Andrew’s wandering hands. Neil breaks gently away to study his face.

“What?” Andrew says after a moment, less a question than a demand. Neil feels that pride again at his indignance.

“What did you dream about?” Neil asks.

One of Andrew’s eyebrows slides lazily up his forehead. They have brainless conversations like this sometimes, it’s true, but they’re generally of the undead variety, or musings as to what would be the best course of action in a house fire. Dreams are rarely touched on. Dangerous territory. Still, Neil needs to know. He doesn’t want to push anything, especially if Andrew is silently struggling.

“Shoving a racquet up Kevin’s ass,” Andrew replies. “Why?”

“How’d you fit it next to the one that’s already in there?”

“Spite and determination. Why, Neil?”

Andrew, ever the pragmatist. Neil sighs.

“You’re just very touchy this morning,” He explains. “At first, I thought it was nightmares, but…” He looks pointedly down at Andrew’s hand, which has travelled down to his left thigh. “Maybe not?”

Andrew makes an ambiguous noise, somewhere between a huff and a hum. Neil thinks he might be gearing up to roll his eyes, but he leans in for a kiss instead. Neil lets this go on for a few minutes, but he’s still apprehensive. He keeps his fingers lightly splayed on the back of Andrew’s skull. He doesn’t deign to move them downward.

But Andrew must tire of this, because he pulls away sharply to level harsh hazel eyes at Neil’s unrelenting blue.

“It’s a _yes,_ Neil,” he says, and tries to lean back in, but Neil stops him.

“Is there a reason you won’t answer my question?” Neil asks.

Andrew makes that noise again—the frustrated one. Well, probably not—Andrew would never let himself express something quite so banal—but Neil doesn’t relent. He merely taps his fingers against Andrew’s neck, a gentle reminder that he’ll wait as long as it takes.

“I didn’t have any nightmares,” Andrew says, finally. “It wasn’t a bad night.”

“Oh?” Neil prompts.

“Oh.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Andrew prods his cheek again. It’s almost funny, how petulant he gets sometimes. It’s a softer part of him that not everybody gets to see. Neil is overcome with sudden gratitude at being one of the lucky few, and its this gratitude that encourages him to move his hands, and start carding his fingers through Andrew’s hair. He’s made it clear that this affection is warranted, and he’ll tell Neil if he wants him to stop.

“Drew?” Neil says.

Andrew bats his hands out of his hair. Neil obliges and returns them to his own lap. There he waits, patiently.

“I had a good dream,” Andrew admits finally, laboriously.

Oh.

“About you.”

_Oh._

Neil’s answering grin gets him a palm to the face, shoving his gaze aside. He laughs against Andrew’s fingers.

“Stop it,” Andrew commands.

Neil looks back at him once the hand is gone. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll break all your exy fingers.”

“Which ones are those?”

“The ones you also use to write and hold a fork. Your grades will tank and you’ll starve to death.”

“Not if you spoon-feed me.”

“I’d much rather dump hot soup in your lap.”

“That’s charming, Drew.” A pause. “Was it a sexy dream?”

Andrew shakes his head.

“An exy dream?”

“Fuck you and your fucking lacrosse-hockey.”

Neil laughs again. “Fine then, enlighten me.”

Andrew is silent for another moment. This back and forth is getting exhausting, but Neil has learned that the key to getting anything out of Andrew is patience and persistence. He cares enough to hang fire.

It must be thirty seconds before Andrew says, “Waffles,” and slides off the bed.

Neil sighs, pulls on a hoodie, and follows him out into the hallway. Looks like he’ll be hanging fire for longer than he thought.

He doesn’t think Andrew is lying. Maybe by omission, but Neil is used to that. It’s a habit in his avoidance. When something makes him feel too intensely, he doesn’t like to talk about it until he’s picked it apart in his head, or sometimes at all. That’s what he must be doing now—picking. Neil quietly decides to let it be. If Andrew needs to talk about it, he will, but Neil will tread cautiously in the meantime.

They enter the kitchen and Andrew immediately tears open the fridge. Neil has to stop prematurely in his tracks to avoid being smacked by the door, and he makes a noise to tell Andrew so. Andrew makes a noise right back. _Unrepentant bastard._

They begin gathering all the ingredients for waffles. Andrew warms up the iron, and Neil starts mixing things in a bowl. Andrew wordlessly sets a bag of chocolate chips by Neil’s elbow. Neil sighs, looks exasperatedly over one shoulder, but Andrew just does a little wave like _get on with it_ and takes up a seat on the far counter. Neil rolls his eyes and indulges him. He doesn’t think he ever won’t indulge him.

Pour, press, wait. Pour, press, wait. This is Neil’s favorite kind of morning. The good kind, where both of them feel the right size for their own skin, and revel in the sight of the sun upon it. When they don’t have practice and they aren’t back at the dorms. Neil never thought he could enjoy just _being_ so much, not until Andrew and the rest of the Foxes came into play at his back. Never pushing, never pulling, ever-present. He thinks the word for that might be “support”. He rolls it around on his tongue, feeling it out. He wonders if that’s what Andrew is doing with his feelings right now. He decides “support” is a good word. A good word, for a good morning.

He plates a few waffles and slides them Andrew’s way. Andrew stops them with a hand, frowning slightly at their nakedness. Neil points to the syrup by the stove.

“Assemble your own heart attack,” he tells him.

Andrew flips him the bird but slides wordlessly off the counter. Neil grimaces as Andrew piles the waffles high with butter, syrup, sugar, and fruit. He takes a moment to thank whichever god is responsible for the rate at which Andrew consumes whipped cream. There isn’t any left from the last time they made waffles, and thus none to worry about this morning.

Neil fixes himself a plate and two cups of coffee before following Andrew out onto the balcony. They stand at the railing, resting their plates and mugs upon it. Neil tunes into the chirping of Columbia’s birds. He casts eyes out on the reddening trees, and feels the light bite of a breeze on his arms. The waffles are a toasty remedy to the chill.

They eat in silence for the first few minutes, sipping and chewing and thinking. At least, Neil assumes Andrew is thinking. That has to be what happens when the two of them aren’t kissing or bickering, right?

Neil’s eyes slide to him of their own accord. Andrew has yet to don his armbands. His hair remains unkempt atop his head, and there’s still a heavy sheen of sleep about him, but the circles under his eyes are faded. The scars on his wrists are old. Neil asks if he can hold his hand, and Andrew quietly twines their fingers. Neil switches his fork to his left hand.

There’s something about the weight of a palm in yours that still all the ugly thoughts in you. It doesn’t stop them, but grants them pause, slows them behind the walls of your skull. Neil has come to realize that this is the wonder of human contact—that it can be violent and intrusive, or keen and benign. The wonder of Andrew is that he knows the difference. The wonder of Neil is that he can allow himself that keenness, now. That he enjoys it.

The food on their plates disappears, and the two of them are left to enjoy the silence. Neil runs his thumb across the backs of Andrew’s knuckles. He helps him light a cigarette with their hands still linked. That smokey smell permeates the crisp scent of fall, creeping up towards the atmosphere in thin, winding tendrils. Neil remembers watching the smoke rise that day in Arizona, mere minutes before he met Andrew for the first time. Before his life changed forever. Months ago, the thought would have pushed him to anxiety. Now it’s a balm to his wounds.

“We had a house,” Andrew says suddenly.

Neil’s gaze snaps to him. “What?”

Andrew keeps his eyes cast out on the yard. “We had a house, and two cats. You went pro. I learned to bake.”

It takes Neil an embarrassing amount of time to realize what he’s talking about. His _dream._ Neil is suddenly much warmer than he was. Had Andrew been envisioning the future? _Their_ future?

When Andrew doesn’t continue, Neil squeezes his hand. Andrew digs his nails into Neil’s knuckles. Neil’s first instinct is to pull away, but he recognizes Andrew’s need to ground himself. The two of them understand the horror of being vulnerable better than anybody.

After a moment, Andrew lets out a ragged sigh. He looks over at Neil, and Neil smiles a bit.

“I want to kiss your hand. Yes or no?” He asks.

Andrew nods, and Neil presses his lips to his knuckles, soft and telling. A substitute for the three words neither of them need to say.

“Do you want that, Drew?” Neil murmurs.

Andrew blinks at him. “To learn to bake?”

“Me. The house. The cats.”

“I’m not averse to pets and real estate. You, I could do without.”

“We both know you’d throw a fit if I tried to leave.”

“I haven’t thrown a fit since I was five years old.”

“And what do you call choking Kevin after I disappeared?”

“Appropriate retaliation.”

“I think he’d disagree with you.”

“Stop talking about Kevin.”

Andrew kisses him. He tastes like sugar and promises, and Neil leans into the feeling. This is what Neil fought for, all those months ago. This is what he never thought he could have.

But a future with Andrew? That should seem even more impossible. That should send him running for the hills with nothing but a wad of cash and the clothes on his back. But it doesn’t. For the first time in his life, it doesn’t, and that manages to be the starkest relief he’s ever felt. Andrew wants him. He wants everything _with_ him.

When they break apart, Neil can’t help but grin again. For once, it doesn’t feel like his father’s smile.

“Andrew?” He says.

Andrew tugs the strings of Neil’s hoodie even. “What?”

“If you want it, I want it.”

Andrew’s hands still. He stares at the letters across Neil’s chest— _Palmetto State_ with little pawprints for A’s—and looks at war with himself. This clearly isn’t something he’s allowed himself to think about.

“Junkie,” he mutters, and stubs his cigarette out on the railing.

Neil watches as Andrew gathers their dishes—when one cooks, the other cleans—and opens the sliding glass door to the house. Neil feels the tiniest pang of disappointment at his dismissal.

But then Andrew stops, and looks over a shoulder. His eyes are as devoid as ever.

“Graduate, Rabbit. Then we’ll talk.” He says, before disappearing inside.

And Neil smiles, because it feels like enough.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been so long since I've written any fanfic, and I completely forgot how fun it was. I could go on about how much I love these books but the fact that I pulled three thousand words out of my ass in an evening should be indication enough.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~DontTouchMySpaceBuns~


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